What If
by Mingsmommy
Summary: Brass and Catherine have a conversation about the impact of adrenaline and mothers on friendships and feelings of attraction. Post No Way Out


Fandom-Pairing:Brass/Catherine

Rating: Teen

Disclaimer: I don't own CSI or any of its characters. I am making no money. Seriously.

Spoilers: Post NoWay Out

Thanks: smacky30 for the beta, the encouragement and the laughter, but I messed with it afterwards, so all mistakes are mine and mine alone. ETA: I also need to thank Kristen Elizabeth for her help, encouragement and multiple read throughs before this was finished. Thanks KE.

This is a belated birthday present for bunchofgrapes. Happy Belated Birthday! It's not as good as you deserve, but I hope you enjoy anyway.

* * *

Though less than ten years old, the restaurant gave off an aura of old school Vegas; dimly lit with a shining mahogany bar and thickly cushioned horseshoe shaped booths. There was a piano in the corner, though the bench was currently unoccupied. The smell of fine leather and fresh cut flowers intermingled with the savory smells of cooking food. The steaks were tender, the scotch was aged and the beer was cold. Brass and Catherine had both been there before with Grissom. And in eyebrow cocking synchronicity, had decided it was time to let "the kids" in on the secret when everyone agreed some winding down was in order.

Despite her protests that it was just a black eye, Riley had been ordered to the hospital, first by Catherine and then by Ecklie. By the time everyone was interviewed and the scene cleared, she had been released by the ER doctor. When the CSIs and Brass all agreed they were still too keyed up to sleep, despite being on the job for more than twenty-four hours, Catherine said "It's on me," and Brass collected car keys. They walked the short distance from the lab to _Bugsy's_ while Brass assured them they'd have no problem getting cabs to take them home.

Brass had seen this a hundred times over his career. Threat and danger had everyone hopped up and energized. Adrenaline and worry-turned-relief permeated the gathering; with the addition of alcohol and exhaustion the atmosphere was festive, nearly giddy. Riley and Ray might be the newest members of the team but that didn't make them any less part of it. Everyone at the table had been in danger or hurt at some point in their careers, so the need to blow off steam was not only real, but shared.

They started with appetizers and a round of drinks. By the time their salads came Greg and Riley were slamming shots and Nick was on his second beer. Catherine sipped an apple martini and Brass and Ray each nursed a tumbler of single malt Scotch. The joking began during the main course and continued after the plates had been cleared. Dessert had been declined by everyone by the time Nick and Greg got into a friendly sparring match over whose scars from on the job incidents were worse, then Brass popped the first two buttons of his shirt, playfully snarling, "You wanna see a scar? I'll show you a scar."

Greg threw up his hands in defeat, "Dude!"

Brass's brows shot up into his forehead. "Dude? Sanders, did you just call me 'dude'?"

"No, no." Greg shook his head manically, as he sucked on a lime then slammed back a shot of Jose Cuervo Gold. "I said food! We need more food."

"You can't even do a shot right any more, _dude_." Riley laughed.

Gravely, Greg blinked at her. "Can so…suck, shoot, lick."

Slowly, equally grave, Riley shook her head. "It's lick, slam, suck." She took a sip of her beer. "You were doing it right 5 shots ago."

"No, no." Unmindful of the amused glances of the older members of the group, Greg turned a charming smile on the pretty blonde. "I know when to suck and when to lick."

Nick spewed a mouthful of _Sierra Nevada_ across the table, barely missing the tiny Prada bag Catherine had carelessly thrown down when they arrived. Cutting both Greg and Nick a dubious look, owner of said Prada bag sighed. "All right, you guys…time to call it a night."

"Yeah," Brass snorted. "You better go home before Greg says something Riley regrets tomorrow."

Feigning being wounded, Greg turned to the detective. "That was crass…Brass."

Pursing his lips in a suppressed smirk, Brass leaned back against the booth. "You were being crude…dude."

Laughing, Riley collapsed against Greg's side, giggling into his neck. Brass threw a wink in Greg's direction as both Nick and Ray slid from the booth. "You only had one, Ray. I'll hand over your keys if you want."

"Thanks, Jim, but I am feeling the fatigue more than I would alcohol. I think a cab is my best option, as well." His chest heaved with a discreet and silent laugh as he watched Riley peel herself off of Greg.

Nick, tipsy, though not quite as tipsy as Greg, offered him a hand, pulling him out of the booth and addressed Ray. "Greg and Riley only live a couple of miles apart, so we'll pour them in the same cab. I'm over near Desert Palm. Which way you headed?"

Langston nodded, his voice sonorous and slow. "A shared ride would be good."

When the four CSIs had cleared the restaurant, Catherine turned to Brass. "Dinner at Le Cirque says Ray is headed to the hospital to check on that kid."

"Reggie?" Shaking his head, Brass swirled his glass, making the ice tinkle. "If you want me to take you to dinner Catherine, you're going to have to do better than that; that's a sucker bet." The detective was both worried for the good doctor and touched by his concern; he only hoped Ray was able to find the balance necessary to walk the tightrope between compassion and burn-out.

Catherine looked at him a moment, obviously considering, then leaned her chin on her palm, giving him a winning smile. "What if I do?"

His forehead wrinkled; had she just implied what he thought she had. "What if you do what?"

"What if," she tilted her head, so her face was almost horizontal, "I want you to take me to dinner?"

Every line on his face seemed to smooth out in an instant as his expression became carefully, neutrally blank even as he felt his pulse jump. "If you wanted me to take you to dinner," he sipped the mixture from his glass that was now more melted ice with the faintest memory of Scotch flavoring it, "I would probably want to know why."

She dropped her arm and gave him a rather annoyed look. "Hey! Show me some mercy here…I'm not exactly used to having to suggest that someone ask me out."

"_Exactly._ Which is why I want to know, why?" His eyes flicked to her slightly reddened face and he did feel a momentary twinge of…not exactly pity, but, maybe sympathy and his voice softened. "I guess I mean, what brought this on so suddenly?"

Catherine huffed out a breath and signaled the waiter for another martini and Brass nodded to the young man to indicate he would like another Scotch. He settled back in the booth and eyed his companion, trying his best not to give her his interrogation stare. Something felt slightly surreal about this conversation; he had admired Catherine since he met her, both as a professional and a friend. If he chose to be honest with himself, he had always been physically attracted to her, but tried to tamp it down so as not to endanger their friendship.

Intently, he watched as she nervously ran a finger over the lip print in _coral fire_ on the edge of her glass. "What if it's not sudden?"

"Catherine," he growled out a bit of frustration. He had seen her in action; he knew she could play as coy as a Victorian virgin or as hard as any Marine he had ever known. But the thing was, he didn't want to be played at all. If she was serious, if he could get her to admit she was serious, then his world had just turned a sharp right angle. "What if I want to have a real conversation instead of one where I feel like I'm back in Junior High and every sentence starts with the words, 'what if'?" He paused as the waiter approached, placed their drinks on the table and glided away. "Seriously, what's going on? Or do I even want to know?"

She was silent for a moment; if he didn't know her as well as he did, if he hadn't studied her for years, he might have taken her silence for petulance instead of hesitation and just a hint of embarrassment. Then she seemed to gather her courage and she blew out a breath and spoke, her voice her normal energetic tone. "OK…cards on the table?"

This was the Catherine he knew; he grinned. "I'll show you mine if you show me yours."

Cocking an eyebrow at him, she took a sip of her drink. "If you would have said that when I told you I wanted you to ask me out, I'd have been a lot more comfortable with this conversation."

He snorted into his drink and indicated she should continue.

"OK." She took a deep breath. "I think, for all his goofiness, Greg and his book on old Vegas really helped distract my mom from her grief after Sam died. Since it went to the publisher…well, I think it's really hit her that Sam's gone and he's not coming back."

Taking another drink, she shrugged. "So, she's been depressed and I tried to snap her out of it by telling her to move on with her life. Well," she grimaced, "she handed me my ass. She said I had no idea what she was going through since the majority of my relationships were shorter than most movie rentals, that I had no idea what it was like to love someone for who they were or have them love me for the same."

She turned her head and he could smell the spice of her perfume. "Furthermore, I had always criticized Sam for his arm candy when I seemed to specialize in only being interested in pretty boys who would be fun to boff."

"That had to hurt." Wincing, he started to continue, but she stayed him with a finely manicured hand.

"It was ugly and it wasn't fun to hear. But hearing the truth about myself has seldom been pleasant."

"So," he drawled, "I'm as far from a pretty boy you'd like to boff as you can get, so you thought you'd prove your mom wrong?" He shook his head. "Catherine, I'm a little long in the tooth to be anybody's teenage rebellion."

He was surprised by the quick, sharp smack to his upper arm. "Ow."

"Don't be an ass," she hissed. "This is hard enough. Let me finish."

Pointedly, he moved further out of her reach, rubbing his stinging bicep. "By all means, finish."

"It made me think," she chewed on her bottom lip, "about the last time I was attracted to someone for who they were, instead of just the way they looked or…how being with them made me look." She picked up her glass and stared down into the green concoction. "Look," she made an impatient noise, as though he had interrupted her when he was merely studying her intently wondering if that smack could be considered assault on a police officer. "I know how that makes me sound. I've spent the majority of my life caring more about the way things look than the way things are."

Bringing the glass to her lips, she took a long drink, then placed the glass back on the linen table cloth. "So, I thought about the men in my life; friends, coworkers, competitors. Even Grissom who was a bit of all three. But you…"

He watched with fascination as her cheeks flushed; he sat forward a little, really beginning to believe this was more than a martini induced whim.

"I…um…" She ducked her head and cleared her throat. "When I first met you, I was married and you were my boss, but," briefly her eyes met his and then skittered away, "I was attracted to you. Then I got to know you and after Eddie…I was such a train wreck at relationships I never wanted to screw our friendship up, so, I never…pursued it."

The silence between them was laden with so many unsaid things, sad and scared and hopeful at the same time. This was real, he realized. For some reason, his friend, his beautiful friend appeared to be asking him to be more than friends. He reminded himself to breathe through the fluttering nervousness in his stomach. Swallowing heavily, he pushed his glass aside leaving a snowy expanse of table cloth between their hands. "So, Catherine," his voice was gentle and sincere. "After all we've been through…why now?"

She shrugged carelessly, but he could see tears in her eyes and he felt his heart squeeze in response. "I guess I have finally gotten to the point in my life where I care more about the way things are. Look," she reached out and laid her hand on his, "you're the best friend I have on this continent and I still don't want to screw that up. But, after everything my mom said and yeah, after seeing Grissom and Sara, I think maybe not acting on my attraction to you all those years ago may have been a big mistake and the smartest thing I ever didn't do."

Delicately, she traced a finger over his knuckles. "I think we would have had fun back then, but I don't think it would have lasted. Now, though, friendship with a healthy dose of attraction might be a great place to start." She bit her lower lip lightly. "I know who you are and you know me, the good and the bad."

Suddenly, she withdrew her hand. "Um, of course, if you aren't attracted…"

"You're not a stupid woman, Catherine. Don't say stupid things." His voice was harsher than he intended but he continued anyway. "I don't know a man with eyes in his head and a beating heart that wouldn't be attracted to you…I certainly have been from the first day I met you." He turned his hand and grasped her pale fingers within his thick dark ones. "But this can't just be some wild hair; you're my friend, we work together, we can't screw that up. If we do this, we both have to be willing to give it our all…jobs, daughters, mother, friends, coworkers notwithstanding. Commitment from the beginning; there's no 'let's see what happens' here."

"I know," she nodded. "I've already thought of that and I really want to try."

There was silence between them for a moment. Brass stared intently at her and she stared at her drink. Finally, he spoke. "So, Catherine, do you want to see my scar?"

Laughing suddenly, obviously relieved and happy, she shook her head. "No way, buddy. Not until you buy me dinner."

Smiling slyly, he raised his hand. "Waiter. Check, please."


End file.
